Once A Soldier
by WeatherWatch
Summary: Annabelle didn't know a lot of things, but she knew, as soon as she set eyes on the broad-shouldered fellow, that he was a soldier.


**A funny little thing from the perspective of an observant muggle.**

**Disclaimer: It isn't mine; I do not gain anything but my own satisfaction and a few reviews.**

Annabelle didn't know a lot of things, and those things that she did feel confident in knowing were few, far between and tended to be on the obscure side: she knew how to milk a cow with her hands, the participating teams and winners of every match from the 1930 Football World Cup, how to flirt with a fan, and she knew words; she could almost recite Joseph Heller's world war two novel, Catch-22, verbatim, and had such a way with language that even her teachers had been envious. So, despite not being very well versed in the ways of the world, Annabelle had surprised herself by recognising – from the exact instant that she set eyes on the broad-shouldered fellow – that he was a soldier.

She had been sitting in the gardens taking a lunch break in the sunshine when he'd first appeared with his short, mouse brown hair and a rounded sort of face – she could still see the hint of boyish youth in his features, but his eyes denied any lingering innocence about his person. Of a tall build, he wasn't what one would strictly call handsome, but there was something mildly foreboding about the way he carried himself; alertness, coupled with stealth, and that was breeding a singularly attractive air.

He seemed out of place in the gardens, among ordinary people perhaps, and was very polite, yet cautious with his wording around the waiters. The fellow was directed to sit at a close-by table, and Annabelle kept her lowered eyes on him, intrigued by his powerful aura and curious about his company – the waiter had placed him at a table with five other chairs, currently empty, but she assumed they would not have to wait long until his companions arrived.

Sipping occasionally at her tea, Annabelle waited, subtly gazing at the subject of her attentions, creating a story in her mind for this strange, captivating man, and quietly extricated a small book and a pen from her bag.

Annabelle McAdams was a writer at heart, and carried a notebook with her at all times. She had never published any of her work, because she didn't feel it was particularly good, though many people had suggested it. She explained that when she found the right inspiration she would consider such actions, but until then writing would remain a hobby to keep her mind occupied.

As she watched the man, she took note of his less obvious features, the ones that she favoured when creating a character. A thin white scar travelled up from underneath his shirt collar, rising up behind his ear, and she imagined it had been inflicted in a torturous event with a knife; a vicious enemy trying to obtain information. Of course, he hadn't given it, he would have suffered heroically and withheld any information he'd known. He might even have spat in their face.

His nose was broken, the result of a skirmish during a night raid, and hadn't been set properly, leaving it crooked. Annabelle thought it gave him character. It certainly made his appearance look older than it otherwise would have, what with his round face.

A nasty burn decorated his left hand, but it was mostly covered by his sleeve, and Annabelle supposed it wouldn't have been spotted by someone less observant but she continued developing her soldier in her mind, creating a burning home from which he rescued abandoned children, becoming at once a hero and a protector.

She was forced to pause a moment in her speculations as his lunch party arrived.

A lithely built boy with haphazard black hair and round glasses entered first, greeting the man and delivering Annabelle a name for her soldier: Neville. The newcomer was scruffy and smiling, but he had a kind of weariness about him, and Annabelle was aware of a devilishly unnatural lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead. One of his hands was scarred with what looked like words, but it was hard to tell from the angle she had glimpsed it – though the large white line which reached the length of his forearm wasn't so obstructed. Whatever had befallen these boys had been cruel.

Two others – in stark contrast – a dark-skinned boy and an ethereal blonde woman with piercing blue eyes, arrived next, delivering their own salutations.

The boy was, outwardly, nothing special with his wiry black hair and dark brown eyes; he was an unassuming figure; an observer; a wallflower, but Annabelle knew better than to disregard his type. He would be intelligent, able to plan and dissect with ease, able to see things that others didn't notice, but he wouldn't dominate – it wasn't in his personality to do so. He was a friend, with good advice and an eye for detail, but he wasn't a leader.

The girl was much the same, though her demeanour was somewhat unnerving. Her smile was unwavering and suggested that she knew more than she let on. Her eyes were clear and intelligent, but they were also vague, as if she were looking not at one's face, but into their very soul. Her pale blue dress was light and fairy-like, shimmering in the sunlight, and she was wearing earrings that looked remarkably like radishes.

Annabelle watched the blonde for a long moment, unable to place her character adequately. She was almost dreamlike, an illusion that came to one when hope was falling away. Her lilting, low voice was murmuring something to the scruffy fellow, and he smiled wanly at her, nodding his head and clasping the hand that had extended to touch his arm tightly, patting it twice and then releasing it.

Annabelle looked away finally, accepting that this woman was, at the very least, a puzzle and, at most, a potentially fantastic character to flesh out.

What fascinated her most about this almost complete group was the decided air of military camaraderie. It wasn't exactly _distinct_, Annabelle supposed, but she was aware of it; their eyes revealed more than they probably would have cared to admit; past horrors were hinted at, and sorrow flirted with life. What she couldn't understand was how such young people could have had such experiences. They were English, blatantly so, but they were too young to have been fighting in any wars, yet according to her postulations they were soldiers- it made no sense to her.

This was, no doubt, the reason for her interest in the gathered party.

Another girl, with bushy brown hair and clever eyes, had joined them, dragging a red haired, gangly, freckled boy behind her. He looked uncomfortable in the gardens, but she kissed his cheek and murmured something encouraging to him because he smirked and answered her with bark of laughter. She wore a business suit that accentuated her tiny figure. Scruffy made a smart remark, brightening considerably at their arrival, and her return quip made the others laugh; she was fast, and her eyes were both watchful and calculating as Annabelle observed the six friends.

She finished her tea, and called the waiter to order another, covering her notebook surreptitiously where she had sketched and made notes on the characters coming to life before her.

If she hadn't been gazing so intently at them she would have missed the moment when the boy with the lightning bolt scar stealthily held his hand over the sheet of paper in front of him and whispered under his breath. The paper they had been discussing – a form the bushy haired woman had produced – multiplied before her eyes, and Annabelle only just managed to stifle the hitch in her throat.

"Harry." The brunette girl scolded sharply, looking about them cautiously. Annabelle focused on her notebook, trying to look beyond suspicion.

Sneaking a glance at them, she was embarrassed to see her soldier staring straight back at her. He held her eyes for a good three seconds before turning away to his friends, commenting on something that had been said.

They left fairly soon after that, before Annabelle had had time to finish her second cup of tea. She forced down the disappointment at their exit, but noticed that Neville, the soldier hero, looked over at her as they left. She coloured involuntarily, and tried to turn the page of her notebook but he was too fast for her; at her side in a mere moment, he saw the hasty sketches she had made and drew a finger over them. The notations on their characters produced a slight smile from him, and she looked on, amazed, as he slid a finger across the paper where she had written 'words?' next to Harry's hand. Neville grimaced.

"_You must not tell lies_." He murmured. Then, indicating the small psycho-analysis she had created for each person and the relationships between them, "You'd be surprised how clearly you've seen us."

She had hardly the time to register his words when her soldier had vanished, walking around the corner of the building. The faint crack that sounded moments later went by largely unnoticed, and Annabelle was lost in her own thoughts anyway, having found her inspiration at last.

**As usual, this ended up vastly different to what I intended, but hey, what's a girl to do when the metamorphosis starts?**

**Please read and review!**


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